The Billionaire Book Club

by Monroe, Max

  Connie Rockford, my mother, is a very special breed of loving, doting mother and anxiety-ridden worrywart.

  From the moment I left the womb, my mom has been focused on my possible abduction at a paranoia level. When I was a baby, she was always worried I’d be nabbed. When I was a kid, she never let me even go near vans, and as an adult, she’s convinced I’m going to end up the tragic subject of a special edition of the nightly news.

  It’s the kind of anxiety even Prozac can’t help.

  I shake my head as I type out my reply.

  Me: It’s not me.

  Mom: I KNOW THAT.

  I snort and type out another message quickly.

  Me: So…what? You’re just suggesting it could be?

  Mom: I just don’t like that you live alone.

  It’s something she’s said more than once, many times in person, and I can practically picture the sigh she always makes along with it.

  Me: And I didn’t like living with the girl who smelled like chicken fat, so this is how it is.

  My last roommate in New York was named Greta, and she had a penchant for meal prep.

  But not, like, healthy meal prep. Fried chicken and grits and gravy kind of meal prep.

  Needless to say, we didn’t stay roomies for long.

  Mom: But you always had fried chicken, Ruby. Can’t you see the silver lining?

  Me: I appreciate your concern, Mom, but I promise, I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m not going to be pulled into the sex trade.

  I chalk that up as yet another thing you’d think most people would never have to tell their mother.

  Mom: Dad could at least get you one of those rape whistles from work.

  I laugh. Outright. I can’t help it.

  Me: Those are dog whistles, mom. He’s a vet.

  Much less fearful about my minute-by-minute safety, Mark Rockford, my dear old dad, has been the voice of reason every time I’ve wanted to do something even remotely risky in my life.

  Gymnastics? My dad had to talk my mom into it by making a PowerPoint presentation about how cool it would be to have a daughter in the Olympics. Although, it only took one crotch-land on the balance beam for me to realize I was not destined for Team USA.

  And going to the beach for the night after prom with my group of friends? My dad told my mom he was picking me up afterward and taking me on a daddy-daughter date. He spent the night in a hotel alone, all for the cause—bless the man.

  The year and a half I took off after college traveling the country? My dad made secret tapes he played while my mom was sleeping, all of him whispering that I’d be fine. To this day, with me living all the way in New York and my parents still in Southern California, I still think he plays them on occasion when she gets really out of hand.

  Mom: Well!

  Me: Mom, all is well. I’m in a Starbucks with seventy-five other people right now, and then I’m headed to work. Almost zero chance of ending up in the sex trade today.

  Mom: There’s always tomorrow, I guess.

  I laugh so hard at the glum tone of her message, the woman at the table in front of me pulls off her headphones and glares. I wince slightly, but I don’t apologize. If she’s hoping for total silence in a Starbucks in New York City, she needs to get a life.

  Me: Do you actually WANT me to end up in the sex trade? Because that’s how it’s sounding.

  Mom: What a terrible thing to say, Ruby!

  I roll my eyes, but I don’t bother explaining that it was her texting inflection that suggested it. Instead, I try to put her mind at ease.

  Me: Look, Mom. I respect my body. You know that. I don’t give it out easily, and I’m not exactly scouring bars looking for random hookups. I work. I go to law school. And I occasionally read a book in Starbucks. I’m careful. I promise.

  And for all of her worrying, and all the crazy things I’ve done to coddle her in the past, this is a statement I mean.

  There’s almost no one more careful with their affection than I am. If something is going to lure me into a sexual trap, it’s going to have to be one hell of a man with good genes, a great laugh, and cosmically impeccable timing.

  Mom: Just keep an eye out, Ruby. The most sexually depraved always pop up when you least expect it. Be aware of your surroundings. Look around every tree, every building. Just KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED, Ruby.

  I almost text her back to tell her I’d literally never get anywhere if I had to look behind every building that encompasses this vast city, but I refrain from fueling the paranoia train.

  Not to mention, I think it’s pretty safe to say if I can avoid any further interaction with that hot, charming-as-hell stranger from the library yesterday, I can avoid accidentally falling into the sex trade.

  Cap

  The library is unsurprisingly quiet as I step inside out of the cool, autumn wind and into the heat thirty minutes before it’s scheduled to close.

  My mind races with all sorts of sexually depraved thoughts as soon as I walk into the vast space, and the sweet, citrusy scent of the woman from yesterday floods my nostrils as though the place has a physical memory.

  I’m back here, in the law library, to run my own fucking errands again because Hell-ary is still in my office screwing everything up.

  But thankfully, that’s not the only reason.

  Twenty-four hours after spotting that petite blonde bombshell behind the desk and I’m more than ready to step up to my new challenge—the sexy little, porno-listening librarian.

  I smirk to myself and head toward the reception area first.

  The desk is empty, save a couple returned books on the top surface, and the surrounding lobby is almost eerily quiet. I wipe my shoes on the rug at the door, straighten my jacket, look to my phone for a moment, take out a piece of paper from my pocket, and put it back, all in a harmless attempt to give the center of my current fantasies time to reappear behind the desk.

  But it’s all for nothing—or at the very most, an amusing minute and a half for the man in charge of watching the security cameras.

  I sigh to myself and scan the surrounding area, but there’s not much I can do. As talented as I am at everything else, even I don’t have the ability to conjure someone with my mind.

  Ah, well. I guess I might as well grab the files for the Porvost account first.

  Once again, I head for the research room and pull up a spot at a computer to locate the file I’m looking for.

  Now that I’ve done it once, I know the process pretty well. I find the information I’m looking for reasonably quickly and make my way to the shelves to start scanning for the physical file.

  I’m picking through the files one by one when a floating head pops up above the shelf in front of me and makes me jump.

  Holy motherfucking mustache.

  “Can I help you find something?” the guy asks, and I look left and right, wondering just how in the bejesus he’s looking down at me from above the shelf like that. Does he have a ladder over there?

  “I, um…I think I got it,” I say, looking back to the files and scanning through them once more. I find the one I’m looking for and turn to the shelf behind me to see if they have another one from around the same time, when the floating head pops up right in front of me, and I fucking jump again.

  “Still okay?”

  I hold the file to my chest and nod with a forced smile. My heart is stampeding through my chest like a herd of water buffalo, but I’m otherwise uninjured. “Yeah. Still good.”

  “Okay,” the head says, moving along the shelf toward the end while looking back at me.

  Okay, so I have to rule out a ladder. Maybe scaffolding?

  “Just let me know if you need anything.”

  The only thing I need is for him to stop scaring the piss out of me every five seconds, but I don’t say that.

  Instead, I let him disappear and spend the next five minutes looking over my shoulder and above the shelves and in every goddamn direction like a psychopath while I search for the oth
er file.

  When I have them both in hand, I make my way back down to the empty front desk and drop them on the counter. I’m looking around the room to see if I can find the blonde when Jack-outside-the-fucking-box pops up in front of my face. Apparently, the head comes with a body attached.

  I jump like a teenage boy with his dick in his hand when his mom knocks on the door.

  “Jesus!” I yell.

  “Oh, whoops. Didn’t mean to startle you,” the guy says, and I crane my head back to take in his form as he continues to stand.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Because you’ve been startling me all over the place.”

  He laughs a little and then shrugs, standing, finally, to what is apparently his full height.

  Cripes, this dude is tall. As in, towers above all living things.

  I follow the line of his body up until I finally land on his face. “How the hell tall are you?”

  He chuckles a little before shrugging his shoulders. I swear to God, they almost touch the ceiling. “Seven foot two.”

  “Christ. What the hell are you doing in a law library, Stretch?”

  “Working.”

  I shake my head with a laugh. “Obviously, I’ve found a fellow smartass.” I bow regally. “I dig it.”

  My reaction apparently lowers his guard a little because he smiles. “I go to NYU Law. In my third year, actually. But yes, I did do a stint in basketball before I broke my back.”

  “Ah fuck, man,” I groan. He must hate having to answer questions about this shit every time he meets someone. His height pretty much makes it an impossible subject to ignore. “That blows. I’m sorry. But hey,” I console with a shrug. “If you’re any good at manipulation, you can make more money as a lawyer than you ever would have at basketball.”

  He takes the files from my hands with a nod.

  I get with the program. This guy doesn’t have any interest in shooting the shit with me, and to be honest, I don’t really have time for it either. Ideally, I would have spent the whole night wooing my potential blond lover, but I’ve got no use for dinner with another dude. Now that poker night is a thing, I’ve got dicks coming out of my ears. “I need copies of both of those.”

  “Right,” he remarks. “They’re fifteen cents per—”

  “Page,” I finish. “Yeah, I got it. The blonde who was working yesterday let me know.” He raises a brow, and I latch on to its significance. He must know who I’m talking about. “You wouldn’t happen to know her name, would you?”

  He squints his eyes slightly, and I’m just observant enough to notice. Maybe he wants to date her—fuck her. Something.

  I mean, I sure as hell want to fuck her, so I can’t blame the guy. But it could be something else. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want a good-looking fucker like me to have her information.

  “It might have been my friend, but I’m not sure. There’re a lot of us law students working here,” he says diplomatically, and I know immediately that he’s lying. He’s holding my eyes, but in challenge, not in fact.

  I decide to drop it and give him a shrug just for show. I don’t need this guy on my back, and I’ll figure out some other way to get her name. I know now that he’s in his third year at NYU Law and that he knows her. I also know it’s a good possibility she’s a law student, too. That’s as good a place to start as any.

  The rest is just going to take me a little bit of time, but it’s nothing that I, the master of finding loopholes in all situations, won’t be able to solve.

  After we go through the whole “I don’t have a library card, but here is my library card number” spiel, he disappears to make the copies, comes back, I pay, and then I step outside. I’m making my way down the large front steps when my phone rings.

  I pull it out, look at the caller ID, and jump on the opportunity without pause. I’ve been trying to give her shit for a day and a half. It’s about time she gave me my five minutes.

  “Wow. Look who it is. My former assistant, Liz. I tried calling you. More than once. But you didn’t answer.”

  I jog down the stairs to the spot where Vinny is waiting and climb inside. He starts driving as soon as I shut the door, heading in the direction of my office.

  “I was in labor, you asshole.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a long process. I’ve heard women talk about it taking twelve, fifteen, even twenty-four hours. Are you telling me you couldn’t find time in an entire day to get back to me?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Well,” I grumble. “Congratulations on the baby, I guess.”

  “Thanks. I can tell you’re really excited. So excited, in fact, that you’ve decided to extend my maternity leave.”

  “What? No fucking way!”

  She keeps talking as if I haven’t spoken. “Which is honestly so nice of you. Best boss ever.”

  Goddamn, she’s a ballbuster. But it’s that quality that has made her the optimal assistant for a guy like me. She takes zero bullshit, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. Not with me or with my clients.

  It might seem like I give her a hard time, but for every ten times I’ve given Liz shit, she’s told me to “fuck off” a hundred. Literally.

  No doubt, our boss-assistant relationship makes zero sense to anyone but us.

  “Liz, you cannot have more time off. I’m already drowning with the imposter you left behind. I can’t take any more days like this. I might actually start to age.” I shiver. “I’d hate to think about what that’ll do for me socially.”

  “See, this is what I like most about you. Worrying about me, the woman who keeps your life in order and just spent an entire day actually pushing a human out of her body, more than yourself. Thank you. Thank you for being so thoughtful and considerate. I’m really going to enjoy those extra three weeks of maternity leave.”

  Three more weeks? On top of the already twelve weeks? Oh, fuck me.

  “Look, if you really want to, we can talk about you and your maternity leave later,” I say. “I’ll even pretend to listen. I’m really good at it. But if you could just help me with my current assistant situation now, we’ll have plenty of time for all that later.”

  “You know what?” she says, a grittiness in her voice I’m not entirely unfamiliar with. “I called the temp agency. They’re sending you someone else tomorrow.”

  “You did?” I say. “Well, Jesus, Liz. You should have just said that in the first place. Then we wouldn’t have had to waste the last five minutes talking about you.”

  The Suburban pulls up at the curb in front of my office, and I climb out without waiting for Vin. He won’t be offended. He’s used to how I operate.

  “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am, Liz. This is me we’re talking about here.”

  “Is that it, then?” she asks. “Can I now go back to caring for the brand-new human I just pushed out of my vagina?”

  “Yep. Congrats, again. And be sure to send your vagina my condolences.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Love you too, Liz.”

  “I’m officially hanging up now, asshat. Have a good day tomorrow.”

  I hit end on the call with a smile. Now that my assistant situation is fixed, there’s no doubt I will.

  Through the lobby, up the elevator, and past an empty assistant desk, I step inside my office, take off my jacket, and settle into my desk chair.

  I pull up the Porvost account and start scrolling through the particulars. I’ve been at it for nearly an hour, only taking one short break to reach out to an old contact, when a text message pops up on my phone. It’s from a woman named Yvette, whom I spent a week with about a year ago.

  Yvette: Dinner Sunday? I need your cock.

  I nearly laugh, but my dick stirs in my pants before I get the chance. This. This is what I love about being a single guy with no obligations. Pussy calls, and I get to answer. It doesn’t matter that Yvette wasn’t on my radar five minutes ago. Now she is, and
I’m free to do what I like.

  Me: Sure, honey. But how about we skip dinner and go straight to fucking?

  Yvette: Just tell me when and where.

  I smile to myself and begin to type out another message when Hell-ary knocks on my door and peeks her head in. I’d assumed she’d gone home for the day, but apparently, I was wrong. “You have a call.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t take the hint. I suppose some people don’t respond to anything other than verbal direction. There is a silver lining, though. At least I’ll be rid of her tomorrow.

  “Right. Who is it?”

  Her eyes widen, and then she shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

  “You didn’t ask…”

  Jesus Christ, unable to run errands and doesn’t take names of callers. Maybe I need to swallow some sort of medication to knock me out until tomorrow. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Quickly, I type out another message to Yvette.

  Me: I’ll let you know.

  I toss my cell down and scan my desk phone for a line with a light on it. When I find the call, I pick up the phone and put it to my ear.

  “Caplin Hawkins,” I greet.

  “Caplin!” the voice says, clearly excited to be talking to me. Obviously, that doesn’t shrink down the pool of potential callers at all. I’m a delight.

  “That’s me. Who’s this?”

  “Oh, oh, right. It’s your old law professor, Dr. Hullum. My assistant said you called.”

  God bless the loopholes and still being able to contact the man who is known for being one of the hardest third-year law professors at NYU.

  Visuals of the blond goddess from the library flash through my mind, and I grin.